Ticker
by RustyPaperclip
Summary: 'He opens his eyes to light so bright, he thinks he's no longer in the Wastes. He squints through it. Sees nothing. Just blurred white shapes. Blurred shadows. What is this place? ' The fate of one of Zimmer's experiments. COMPLETE
1. Foreword

**Foreword**

This is the story of one of Zimmer's experiments, HP-17. It is based on 'Trouble' but can be read as stand alone. Written as a gift for my dear friend, Albertogang.

The cover is drawn by the him, Albertogang, on deviantart. The original art is here in his gallery: albertogang dot deviantart dot com /art/HP-17-4-279412367  
Replace the dots with actual periods/fullstops.

Thank you for reading. It means a lot to me.


	2. 1

**.**

He opens his eyes to light so bright, he thinks he's no longer in the Wastes. He squints through it. Sees nothing. Just blurred white shapes. Blurred shadows. What is this place? He remembers walking, trying to find somewhere to rest. Remembers long purple rays of sunset. Remembers a stick of meat on his plate. A pistol in his hand. Then nothing. There's a blank in his mind. Like something has fogged it up. He's not drunk. The haziness in his head is something else. Something –someone comes close and his vision focuses on a white coat. It writes something on his chest. The words scratch into his skin. It hurts. His heart is pounding. The sound beats like a rhythm in his head. He tries to move. He can't. There's something holding him down. There are straps across his chest. And there are hands. Death-like grips around his ankles. His knees. Someone else comes into focus. Someone in a red suit leans down and he sees an upside down smile. Red Suit tells him "This will be all over soon". Then he screams when they twist off his legs.


	3. 2

**. .**

He opens his eyes and finds that he's weightless. Floating in a tank of water. He panics. Then he realises he can breathe. There is a mask over his face. He wants to take it off but his arms don't move. He can't… move them. And he can't feel his body. He looks down and sees a torso he doesn't recognise. It's scarred. Punctured. Burned. There are words on his skin. Numbers and letters he can't read. There are tubes stuck in the pale flesh. Bulging lines where they push under his skin. He sees staples across open wounds. There's something wrong with his fingers. Two of them. They're not... they're... what is this? What is going on? He sees his legs. And his legs – He jerks away from his own body. This can't be happening. He opens his mouth to scream but water rushes in. It fills his mouth. Flows into his throat. It isn't water at all. It tastes like blood. "Feeding time," Red Suit says through the glass.


	4. 3

**. . .**

He opens his eyes and sees no colour. Just grey. White. Black. Someone else is here with him. In him. They're chanting. He can't remember when it started but it hasn't stopped since then. He hears the words in his head. Sees them in his eyes. Feels them in his veins. He can't feel anything else. Can't remember anything. Bright light flashes into the tank. Swirls in the gel. The tank is drained. It opens. The one inside him takes a step with his legs. Stretches with his hands. Someone tells him "Good boy". The one inside him makes him open his mouth. Makes him move his tongue. Makes him say the words of the chant aloud. "Ready to obey." And then, they ask him to kill.


	5. 4

**. . . .**

He opens his eyes and sees red. It drips into his sight. Slides down his cheek. The chanting in his head is gone. But there are sounds of metal scraping on the floor. Frantic. Panicked. Loud. Someone presses warmth onto his forehead. He looks up and sees pale eyes. A wide smile he wants to trust. A ring of light around this being's head. An angel? He starts to breathe - then everything _hurts_. Everything…everything's broken. Shattered. Dislocated. Dislodged. Sharp spikes are buried in his flesh. And he realises that those are his legs that are scraping on the floor. That he's the one whimpering. That it even hurts to breathe. The smile above falters. He feels the tears run down his cheeks as he mouths the words "Please let me die." He feels the barrel of a gun. Then he hears the gunshot.


	6. 5

**. . . . .**

He opens his eyes and immediately shuts them. The sunlight is too bright...

Sunlight?

He opens his eyes again. To his left, the sunlight streams through broken windowpanes. It rests its heat on him. He feels it… fleetingly. Had sunlight always felt like this? He can't… remember. He lifts his head up. He is still in the lab where they took his life. Not in the tank or connected to machines. Shafts of light drape across his chest, slopes down his torso and he sees the rise and fall of his own breaths. There are marks on his skin. Tiny dents where holes had housed tubes and wires. Shiny lines where open wounds had closed into scars. There is a white patch taped down over his chest where his heart is. He looks lower still and… he sees them, his legs. They glint with the sunlight, reflect white into his face.

"Good morning," someone greets him. He faces the source of the voice and he sees pale eyes and a wide smile. He doesn't know how to smile back. He glances at the sunlight. Looks at the rest of the lab behind Pale Eyes. He raises his body up to sit. He is trembling with effort. His legs don't move. They're heavy on the mattress. Pale Eyes hands him a glass of water from nowhere. He stares at it, at Pale Eyes' fingers around it. He lifts his hand and sees that he is wearing a glove. "You were stabbing yourself in your sleep. You tried to stab me too," Pale Eyes explains. It sounds like an apology and it shouldn't be one. He doesn't miss the blades they replaced his fingers with. He takes the glass with the gloved hand. It shakes in his grip. He puts the glass up to his lips. He sips...

He can't swallow. There is a lump in his throat. His eyes are burning. He had forgotten what water is.

"So," Pale Eyes starts and leans close. "Got a name that isn't HP-17?"

There is a sudden sharp jab in his head. Images fly behind his eyes. He sees a sunset. Sand at his feet. A plate of food. A pistol. He doesn't know why he has those images. He's never seen them before. He clutches his head until the pain passes. When he looks up again, Pale Eyes is still standing close like he hasn't moved. But the glass is no longer in his hand and his lap is wet.

"Can't...remember," he answers. His own voice is rough. He doesn't recognise it.

"I shot you here, you know," Pale Eyes says, reaching over and pointing at his chest. Over the white patch. His heart is ticking. "It's not the first time I shot someone dead only to have them walking again." Pale Eyes moves away but the warmth stays. He pulls out a box from his pocket. Takes a cigarette from the box. "But that's not the point." Pale Eyes lights the cigarette with the lighter around his neck. He smiles. "They're your legs now. It's about time you walked with them."

Pale Eyes keeps smiling at him like he isn't an experiment. A hybrid person.

"Are you... an angel?" he blurts out. Pale Eyes chuckles.

"I'm a Saint," he says, the smoke curling out of his mouth. "And your name...Well, Bigtown will give you a new one." Bigtown? "They'll give you one if you ever get out of bed."

Turning away from the saint, he sees his metal toes curl. Something in his chest squeezes at the sight. It's an acute feeling: being in control of his body. He turns and puts his feet on the floor. They make light clomps as they touch the tiles. He stands up. Takes one step forward with his metal legs. It doesn't hurt to breathe. When he lifts his gaze, Saint is grinning. The sunlight washes golden over him.

"You ready?" Saint asks.

"Ready," he says.

**end.**


End file.
